Taxes
by you'vegotthis
Summary: Sexy mathematics. Go figure.


Taxes

Sexy taxes. Go figure.

Castle's already offered to let his tax guy look at her stuff, "seriously, it's like your civic responsibility is more important to you than being my muse."

He thinks maybe he needs to feign fear when she glares at him now.

Might make her feel good.

Like she's in control.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Castle," exasperation written all over her face as she opens the door to him, "I told you, I have stuff to do tonight." T-shirt, NYPD sweatpants, hair in a ponytail, she's obviously in no condition to crunch numbers.

"I _know,_ that's why I came to surprise you." He offers his sacrifices to her in the form of a kiss on the cheek and a bouquet of fresh flowers as he brushes by her. He's loaded down with plastic bags, her chances of productivity? Zero.

"I brought you . . .," he reaches into the bags, "exactly what you need."

"There's a mute mathematician in there?" It's everything she can do to suppress her smile as she pretends to rummage through the bags.

Oh.

Who knew he had a glare too?

"Pencils. And a calculator. One of those good ones, you know, with the tape that makes it all official. And I thought I'd help you, Kate, but if you'd really rather I go . . . "

He gives her the sad eye and waits for it. One face twitch and she relents

"No Castle, you can stay, but you have to help, not use this as some excuse to get me into bed."

"I . . ."

But she stops him with a hand, "or to make cheesy sexual innuendo."

"But . . ."

"Five years of paperwork. Alone. Track reccccorrrrrd," and then she's twirling away, headed for her desk.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

There really isn't much he can do to help. It's not like two people can fill out a form. To make it worse, he's just thought of about ten jokes he's pretty sure will go unappreciated. But she is concentrating so hard, he can do what he does best, stare.

On the third pencil, the sharpener stops mid-whirl. His search for a clue leads him to an irritated detective holding the plug.

He thinks she is just mean when she rips the roll of paper off the back of the calculator. He was only trying to write her one of those up-side-down-numbers-look-like-letters love poems. She should be grateful.

Ten minutes of watching her huff, hum, erase, re-calculate and twist all that hair into an absent minded, but totally adorable bun, and he's had enough. No one should have to watch her naked neck.

"Let me speed this along," he says, snatching the form from her hand.

"Castle!"

He's spinning out of his chair even as her finger tips just miss a grip on his belt.

"Castle!"

She gives chase, grabbing at his shoulder as he makes it to her living room, "Stop. I was almost done." He manages to hold the form above his head and just out of her reach. She's on her tip-toes for it when he takes advantage and pulls her in with his free arm, gets a little taste of that neck.

"I knew you were not to be trusted," she whispers, her quest forgotten. "That . . . uh," but he's working that spot by her ear and damn him for turning into a mute mathematician. He's totally calculated this to his advantage.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He's sitting in his underwear asking her tax questions. "Do you own or have you owned during the last year, a farm, domesticated animals, or known any farmers?"

"Um, define 'known,' you mean it in the biblical sense?"

"Does it change your answer?"

She's lying on his torso, perpendicular to him, her hair spilling over his naked chest, cradling his arm across her chest. "I've told you before, sometimes for the sake of a relationship, it is better not to know."

She squeals when he squeezes her, curling up to kiss her head.

"Alright then, let me check this over, " he waves the form with his free hand, "Name? Address? Check. Occupation? Check. Marital status? We won't go there." She bites his arm.

"Ow, don't bite the hand that reads to you," he feigns pain as she reaches up to caress his jaw in apology, "now, I'm concerned that you may not have included all your deductions here, Ms. Beckett."

"Oh? What, in your expert opinion, am I missing?"

"Like here, you forgot to take a deduction for reinvested dividends?"

"What?" She sits up and flips herself over, coming to rest on his shoulder so she can see the form.

"Here, see this line 28A? You could have deducted all that time and effort you invested in me in 2012." Castle lives to see that Kate Beckett grin, and he just put it there.

"Who says I was getting dividends all this time?"

"Are you saying I'm not a good investment, Detective?"

"On the contrary Castle, my shares are just starting to pay off."

"Think there might be a line item for that . . ." but she's already leaned in to finish his sentence with her mouth. Her traitorous hands cupping his face and spilling her adoration into his willing spirit.

He invests.

When they come up for air, it's clear, they're both more interested in _cop_ulation than calculation.

"How about we take this to my tax guy?"

"Hmm, rather kiss you."

"Oh, you are _taxing_ Kate Beckett."

Her hands find the silk of his boxers before their innuendo gets out of hand.

"Want to help me file for an extension Mr. Castle?"


End file.
